


Something To Hold On To

by orphan_account



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe-Modern Setting, Blind Character, Disabled Character, First Kiss, Florist Chirrut, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mentions of Racism, Multi, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Polyamory, Post-War, Tattoo artist Baze, Veteran Baze
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-22
Updated: 2017-02-22
Packaged: 2018-09-26 07:51:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9874319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Baze has a complicated life, but it's his.  Running his tattoo shop and getting by.  He copes with his life after the war with routine--and somehow watching the new florist shop has become part of that.  But Baze Malbus' life is about to change when it becomes intertwined with the florist who has a smile like the sun.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for user who wanted to remain anon for an ACLU donation. The request was Florst/Tattoo Shop AU with war vet Baze. 
> 
> Warnings for this fic: PTSD struggles, panic attacks, descriptions of death during deployment.

Leaning on his cane, Baze brought the cigarette to his lips and inhaled. Something he should quit. Something he should have quit years ago. And he had, for a while. He can’t even pretend like the smoke helps him at all, like he could as a young, stupid teenager trying to look cool in front of his friends. Now it’s an old habit he’s clinging to, because it gives his hands something to do and gives him this weird sense of purpose and control over his life.

If I get cancer and die, he thinks, at least I’ll know why.

His doctor was constantly bitching at him about it. “How do you expect to heal if you won’t let yourself.”

He’s not entirely sure the cigarettes are impeding much. The shaking in his left arm has nothing to do with whether or not he lights up a few times a day, and he’s pretty sure throwing his pack into the bin isn’t going to regrow his fucking leg or erase the deep scars across his cheeks.

That sort of statement is usually met with a wide, ghastly smile he knows makes people uncomfortable. He’s not the ugliest, really. He knows that. He was never particularly good looking to begin with, even as a young kid thinking it was a good idea to join the army. Thinking that he was a crack-shot and could climb the ranks, and really how fucking hard could it be. How bad was war, really?

He was too stupid to listen to his superiors, or understand what PTSD really meant. Or that an IED really can tear the skin from your face or the limbs from your body. 

But. 

Whatever.

It was what it was.

Now he was home and doing the only other thing he was good at. Making art on people’s bodies. The fact that his right hand was steady as a rock well—he wasn’t sure if that was a blessing or a curse. But he made decent money—enough to live comfortably and people seem to find his lack of speaking soothing rather than unnerving like it was when he first got back.

He barely has to say ten words a day to make it most of the time—unless the customer is particularly new or scared. Then he uses all his strength to get the sentences out, and usually it works. It calms them, and he puts his art on their skin, and they leave happy with a generous tip.

He also doesn’t hate the view. Across the street are several vendors—magazines, post cards, candy, stupid shit like that. He can’t help but wonder if the place is trying to emulate the heart of Paris with the green stalls and the Marilyn Monroe photo books. But this is California, not Paris. Something he took great comfort in because goddamn if he just wanted to feel the streets he grew up on.

His parents had been first generation, only a handful of English between the both of them. But his dad was a goddamn genius and was working for some top secret government agency which built planes or…something. He was never sure. His dad died of a heart attack when Baze was eleven and his dad had never been the most talkative guy.

His mother had taken it hard. She’d locked herself away, then used the money his dad left to hire a nanny and that was…that, really. Taking a look at him, no one would ever assume that had been his childhood. Private schools, tutors, piano lessons. He was supposed to go off and be a doctor or an Ivy League professor. Something.

He wasn’t supposed to drop everything and follow his girlfriend’s brother into the fucking army. He wasn’t supposed to fall in love with his superior officer.

He wasn’t supposed to watch Ethan die, either.

Or get blown up.

But all that shit happened.

He came home to a mother who died a month later from a stroke, a handful of bills he was able to cover when he was discharged. He had a purple heart, and a small apartment, and a little tattoo studio with his name emblazoned across the door in bright red paint.

And right now he had a cigarette in one hand, and a view of the new florist shop which was opening their doors for the first time since the property had been rented.

It was called Rogue, which was the strangest name for a florist shop he’d ever heard of, but he wasn’t about to judge. He’d spent the last week and a half watching them move in. Most of it had been done via massive truck in the alley, but he’d seen a handful of guys and one young woman carrying tables, chairs, glass pieces, and huge boxes that couldn’t have weighed much.

They were all young—younger than he was, at least. Or younger than he looked, and probably felt. They had the modern hipster look-skinnies and crop tops and under-cuts. Shit he couldn’t have pulled off even if he was their age. His hair had grown too long by now, tamed by a single plait down his back and he was lucky if he remembered to let it out and wash it more than once a week.

He felt awkward and heavy near them, even if they hadn’t bothered to take notice of the bulky man with the heavy coat and noticeable limp.

He sighed, and shifted his weight off his prosthetic. It had been a couple of years now, but the ache never stopped, the phantom pain which sent white-hot nails digging into a foot that no longer existed. He ached to stretch a knee that wasn’t there anymore.

Instead he pushed the tip of his cane hard into the polished tile, and flexed his thigh. It didn’t help. It never did. But it distracted him enough to give up on the rest of the cigarette and head back inside.

He was alone in the shop for now. His apprentice, who was currently serving as secretary since the other two guys working with him were on vacation, was out getting coffee. She’d be gone a while. He knew she had it bad for one of the baristas down the street, so every volunteer for a coffee run was bound to take hours.

He didn’t mind. He had some sketching to finish, and no appointments until after three.

*** 

Baze was halfway done with a mermaid he’d been commissioned to draw up when the chime on the door sounded. He put his pen down, and glanced over but Amy wasn’t at her desk. He let out only the smallest sigh, then pushed himself up to peer over the short wall and saw two of the men he recognised from across the street.

The one with the longer hair was staring at the art up on the walls with a wide-eyed, almost excited expression. The other, older and far more no-nonsense, had his arms crossed over his black tank-top. His arms were bare of ink, and Baze had to wonder if they were just coming by to get a look at the shops near them, or if they were really interested.

“Can I help you?”

The shorter one with long hair startled, and let out a small stammer before he said, “H-hi yes, sorry. Sorry, are we bothering you?”

Half of Baze’s mouth quirked up, and he hoped he didn’t look too intimidating. “No. I’m not busy.”

“I just…we just opened across the street,” the kid said, jutting his chin at the flower shop.

“I saw you moving in,” Baze confirmed. He hated small talk. He hated all talk. Talking felt like speaking through razor blades. His therapist said it was part of his PTSD, there was nothing physically wrong, the block was mental but…it was still a block. And he still hated it.

“We um…my boyfriend and I um…” The kid looked over at the unimpressed one who sighed. 

“He gets a little excited,” the older one said, his voice lightly accented. He approached and extended a hand. After a minute, Baze took it. His second least favourite thing—touching strangers he wasn’t inking. But he remembered his manners well enough. “I’m Cassian, and this is Bodhi. He’s interested in maybe booking an appointment.”

Baze swallowed and willed his throat to loosen just enough to get the rest of the words out. “Books there,” he said, nodding to the shelf. “Unless you want a design.”

Cassian seemed to sense Baze’s struggle, because he put a hand at the small of Bodhi’s back and urged him toward the sofa sat under the window. “We’ll have a look, then maybe think about an appointment. It’ll be his first.”

Baze grunted and nodded, then went back to his chair and forced himself to concentrate on the mermaid’s lines until they both stood. Bodhi had a book out, one of Baze’s drawings of a vine with honeysuckle.

“Can you do something like this? I was thinking around my arm,” Bodhi said, his voice coming out a little stronger now with Cassian there touching him on the waist.

Baze looked down, then nodded. “Yes. Easy. Maybe two hours. How big?”

Bodhi bit his lip and turned to Cassian who drew a line round Bodhi’s forearm. “Like that?”

“Two hours,” Baze confirmed.

He pulled out his appointment book and handed it off to the two men, gesturing for them to find an open slot. They did, a cancellation the following Wednesday, and he scratched Bodhi’s name in for them.

He handed off his card with his number. “Text,” he said, then swallowed again. “If you need to cancel.”

“Or we’ll come by,” Cassian said, his voice a little less irritated than it was before.

Baze managed another smile as they left, and Amy chose that moment to return. “You’re fired,” he said.

She laughed, and flipped him off, and resumed her seat.

*** 

Tuesday morning his old Wednesday uncancelled. He felt terrible, but the man was a regular, and lonely, and dealing with shit Baze didn’t even want to imagine. The guy didn’t talk much, but it was obvious how much the tattoo therapy was necessary for him, and he never turned the guy down.

So he gathered his strength, left a note on Amy’s desk letting her know he’d be across the street, then scratched out a second note to hand over to one of the flower guys. **Need to reschedule Wednesday. I can make room Thursday.**

Grabbing his cane, he slipped the Be Back Soon sign on the door, locked it behind him, then started across the street. Luckily the streets were narrow, and luckily their shops were level to avoid most of the city’s dips and hills which would have been murder on his leg.

His limb had not been severed cleanly, and the nerve damage was irritating on his good days, unbearable on his bad ones. But today he felt better than usual, so it wasn’t much of a chore to stroll over and let himself in.

The first thing Baze noticed was the intense smell of flowers. He couldn’t even begin to pick out individual scents, but somehow they all managed to work together almost perfectly. The shop itself was small, but the tables and cold cases were arranged with wide aisles for patrons to browse. Along the back wall was a build your own bouquet set up with several buckets, flowers in each, and triangular shaped plastic to put them in. It was sweet, and it was cool, and…it was empty.

Baze cleared his throat, then saw a small bell on the desk near the register. He hated drawing attention to himself, but after a moment, he tapped it. The light ping sounded through the shop, and a voice he hadn’t heard before called out, “Out in a second!”

It was accented slightly, but he couldn’t make it out for how far off it was. He leant on his cane and tapped his foot lightly on the floor. He was starting to feel a little anxious, and were it not for the wide aisles, he knew he’d be getting a little claustrophobic.

But before he decided to give up and go, the side door swung open and a man walked out holding a huge bouquet of summery-coloured flowers in a vase. Baze couldn’t make out much of him other than that he was just a little shorter than Baze, thin, and wore a sort of tan linen trousers and no shoes. His bare feet came to rest beside a table, and Baze watched the slender hands push the vase onto the wood before he turned.

Baze felt his breath catch in his throat with surprise. The man was Chinese, had an angular cut jaw, thin nose, wide smile…and blind eyes. They were a sort of foggy blue, no pupil, and wide. He’d seen that before in vets when he was recovering. Men who took the blast of an IED to the face. If they hadn’t lost their lives, a lot of them had lost their sight.

Baze recovered quickly, but realised after half a second his note wasn’t going to work.

“Can I help you?” the man said.

Baze cleared his throat, willing himself to be heard. “I…work across the street. At the tattoo shop.”

The man’s smile got wider, and he took a step toward Baze, hand outstretched. “I’ve heard a lot about you. Bodhi wouldn’t stop going on about your art. Says he’s getting a piece done tomorrow.”

“That’s what I…” Baze had to stop. His throat was dry and too tense. “I have to reschedule.”

The man’s brow dipped. “He will be disappointed, but I’ll let him know. He and Jynn are out on a delivery right now.”

Baze sighed. “I brought a note.” When the man opened his hand, Baze gave it over and watched as the man slipped it into his pocket.

After a second, the florist’s eyebrows shot up. “I’m Chirrut. I’m sorry, I never introduced myself.”

Baze shook his head, then remembered. “It’s okay. Baze Malbus. I own the shop.”

“Baze Tattoos,” Chirrut said, his smile getting wider, bright like the sun. Baze felt his breath catch in his chest, and it was strange. It was an unfamiliar feeling, not entirely comfortable. “Do you drink coffee?”

“I…yes?” he said, confused.

“I was going to take my lunch and go for a cup when Cassian got back, but I think you should take me.”

Baze blinked at him. “…me?”

“You know the area, you’ve been here a long time. Come on, my treat.” The way he spoke, commanding and so sure, it was impossible to say no to. He didn’t even wait for a response, merely shuffling behind the register, returning with sandals on his feet, and a folded white cane tucked up under his arm. “I’ll buy whatever you choose, but make it good. I need coffee and something filling. I’m working the closing shift.”

Baze briefly wondered how long this man had been in the shop since he hadn’t seen him at all, but he appeared to be very familiar with the place. So he just cleared his throat and said, “Okay. There’s Italian around the corner.”

“Perfect.” Then Chirrut had his arm, and they were walking out the door.

Baze didn’t really think about Chirrut’s grip on him until they were halfway to Vera’s. Chirrut had his left side, which was good for his leg, since his right needed the cane. But his arm was shaking, and Chirrut’s steps faltered after a minute.

“Would you prefer I walk on my own?”

“No,” Baze said gruffly. He cleared his throat again. “I have a cane. I’m sorry if I’m not…doing this well.”

“You’re perfect for a beginner guide,” Chirrut said, then elbowed him like they’d been friends for years. “But if I’m hurting you…”

“No,” Baze said again.

Chirrut let it drop, but he began to chatter about the neighbourhood, about the other vendors and other shops, and how well they’d been welcomed. He didn’t stop talking until they reached Vera’s, and were brought to a table. It was a small booth, by the window, dimly lit.

“Do you have braille menus?” Chirrut asked the hostess who sat them.

She blushed and looked horrified. “Sorry um. We don’t.”

“It’s okay,” he replied cheerfully. “I didn’t expect you to. Just always a nice treat when a place does. My friend Baze here can help me.”

The thought was horrifying, only because he didn’t trust his voice to last as long as Chirrut might need to get the whole menu read aloud.

“Just choose for me. No allergies. I’m adventurous, I like to try new things.”

Baze gulped, then said, “Okay.”

He ordered them each a pasta dish—Chirrut’s with scallops and shrimp, his own with a pesto sauce. Chirrut got his coffee, Baze stuck with water. As they ate, Baze realised he was having a nice time. He hadn’t checked his phone, hadn’t worried about the time, just let the soft words of the florist wash over him.

*** 

Baze’s heart did the thing again. The funny thing where it felt like it was trying to beat straight out of his chest. The door to the shop opened, and Bodhi walked in. Baze was expecting to see Bodhi’s boyfriend by his side, but instead it was Chirrut, gripping Bodhi’s upper arm with one hand, holding a small vase of brightly coloured flowers in the other. He was wearing a small, almost expectant smile, and Baze glanced over at Amy who was grinning openly at him.

“Hey,” Bodhi said, sounding as nervous as he had the first time. “I…I’m a little early. I can go, if it’s too early. We can…”

“Come on, kiddo,” Amy said, standing up. “I’ll get you sorted in the back room while Baze gets your design printed.” She winked at Baze, and Bodhi moved through the short, swinging door after Amy.

Chirrut, surprisingly, stayed behind. He had one hand on the top of the counter, and he was still holding the flowers. “I thought this might brighten the place. As long as it’s not some sort of hazard.”

Baze cleared his throat. “It isn’t.”

Chirrut slid the vase on the counter after feeling for an empty spot, then his fingertips brushed over pink, blue, purple, and white petals. “I put this together. Jynn insisted it looked nice, but this one isn’t really about the presentation.”

“It’s beautiful,” Baze managed.

Chirrut’s smile widened. “Smell them. That’s the whole point.”

Baze glanced back through the window, half shaded by accordion blinds, and he could see the waists of both Bodhi and Amy as she got him in the tattoo chair. He glanced back at Chirrut who was waiting patiently, still holding the edge of the counter.

He took a step forward, then another, until he was near. His head tilted forward, his nose brushing against one of the soft petals, and he inhaled. It was like being smacked in the face with spring, with fresh air after a massive storm. He backed up, unable to stop the left side of his mouth from quirking up high.

“That is nice,” he confessed. Then after a beat, “I’m smiling.”

Chirrut, just for a second, looked startled. Then his grin widened, bright and sunny. “I was hoping you would. Thank you for telling me.”

Baze swallowed thickly, then said, “Are you staying with your friend?”

“For moral support,” Chirrut replied. “Jynn’s manning the shop, and Cassian’s not…” He hesitated. “He’s not as talkative. A lot like you, I think, in more ways than one.”

Baze bit down on his lower lip. “Ah.”

“I thought it might…” Chirrut, for the first time, looked almost uncertain. “Forgive me if I’m overstepping,” he began. “I thought it might be easier for Bodhi to have someone to speak to. While you work.”

Baze felt a warmth flood through him, lava-slow and lava-hot, and it was the first time he’d felt this way in…a while. Since brown eyes sat above dirt-covered cheeks locked with his own. Since hands calloused by hard desert work, machines, and guns, gripped his face and kissed him slow and soft.

He felt a pang of fear, the pang of loss he’d been trying to avoid all this time. But Chirrut was…different. This was different. He was not at war. They were safe. His therapist would remind him that no one would ever be completely protected, but no one was out to harm him. Or those he might love.

So he sighed and said, “You can take my arm if you like.”

Chirrut’s smile, which had started to fade at his silence, picked back up, and his thin fingers took the edge of Baze’s sleeve. They dug into the fleshy bit of his bicep, and then he hummed. “Do you have tattoos?”

Baze couldn’t help the barest chuckle. “Yes,” he said.

Chirrut grinned at him as they headed for the back room. “Perhaps you’ll tell me about them some day.”

*** 

That some day came a lot sooner than Baze was expecting. In a way he was not expecting.

He’d been in therapy since his recovery. His PTSD was sometimes typical—nightmares, insomnia, manifesting in angry outbursts and irrational fear. Sometimes his PTSD was atypical. Sometimes it manifested in smaller ways, his right hand—the one unaffected by nerve damage—shaking as he stirred his coffee or flipped his eggs. Sometimes it left him dissociating at the slightest provocation. Sometimes he would lose time, forgetting everything that happened between sunrise, and noon.

It wasn’t as often anymore.

But there were moments.

This one was unkind. This one was in the form of Chinese New Year which was a busy time for him, which was peppered with music and drums, the parade not far off. He didn’t speak to most of his family, and it had been years since he’d been around anyone in the community he’d been raised in. But he enjoyed the far off sounds of celebration.

Until some kids—he assumed they were kids—got a hold of poppers and roman candles. He wasn’t always affected, but when it took him by surprise, he couldn’t stop himself from reacting.

He didn’t remember running into the alley. He didn’t remember crouching next to a large bin with his knees to his chest, his head in his hands. He didn’t remember when he’d started rocking back and forth and muttering old prayers and begging not to die.

But that was how Chirrut found him.

The edge of his white cane hit his shin, and he startled, shoving himself back against the wall before he came out of it. Chirrut snatched the cane back, then crouched. He put his hand out, but didn’t touch, just hovered there.

“Amy sent me and the others out looking for you. The kids are gone. She said it was the noise.” He was keeping his voice low, honey-slow and easy. “Are you with me? Baze? You don’t have to talk just…let me know.”

Baze’s eyes were locked on the scarred whites of Chirrut’s, and he couldn’t speak, as much as he wanted to. So he reached out and brushed his fingers along Chirrut’s extended wrist. Chirrut grinned, and let out a tiny sigh.

“I don’t live far. Only a block away, but pretty high up so the noise isn’t bad. I think…if you’d like. I can make soup. Maybe tea?”

Baze’s head was still foggy, but aware enough to know he wanted that. He needed to get away, to feel silence and comfort and peace for a little while. These attacks were few and far between now, but every time he had one, he felt the raging tsunami of fear in his gut that they would start up again. That they would never stop. That this panic and fear and chaos would end up being his every waking moment.

He breathed, then pushed himself against the wall. He wobbled, unsteady without his cane, but Chirrut put a steady hand out, and Baze moved into it. Chirrut’s thin but strong arm hitched round his waist, and together they made the journey to the building only a block away.

Chirrut’s place really was far up. He was on floor six of eight, furthest back. There was a lift, which Baze was profoundly grateful for. His leg was starting to ache from the tension he was keeping in his body, and his nerves were on fire.

When they stepped inside, Baze froze in a slight panic. He had a difficult time going places he was unfamiliar with. He was so high up, and his brain immediately started looking for escape routes until he remembered he was safe. This was okay. Chirrut had brought him here for a safe space to breathe again, to recover.

“What,” he said, trying to convey every question into the one word he could manage. What should I do? What shouldn’t I do? Where do you want me to go?

“My sofa is old, but comfortable,” Chirrut said, pressing his hand to the small of Baze’s back. “Go sit and I’ll make tea. I have something herbal, calming.” He released him, and out of the corner of his eye, Baze watched Chirrut hang his cane on a hook by the door, push his shoes against the wall, then head into the kitchen through a narrow, sliding door.

When he was alone, he took several deep breathes. The apartment was slightly dim from the late afternoon fog. There were a few lamps, some abstract décor on the walls, and shelves with books. There was a TV which had a long, ivy-like plant growing from a pot, covering the screen. The sofa was under the window, it was a sort of ugly, olive green, and tattered, but it looked well-loved. In front of that, a low coffee table, and a huge book with open, thick white pages which looked blank.

Braille, he realised as he walked closer. He couldn’t stop himself from touching, from letting the bumps cascade under his fingers. He couldn’t imagine how that translated to words, he had no idea how anyone could make such tiny bumps make letters but…he supposed there was a lot he didn’t understand about the world.

When he sat, he realised the sofa was possibly more than just comfortable. It was like a hug. It cushioned him perfectly, and he laid his head back against the side, his eyes closing. In the distance he could hear Chirrut in the kitchen, bustling around, porcelain mugs clinking, a kettle whistling.

He didn’t open his eyes until he heard a thunk, and saw Chirrut sliding a tea tray onto the coffee table. “I brought honey and milk, and some lemon.” He felt out for the sofa, found the empty cushion, and sat. “Either mug is yours,” he said.

One was blue, one was a cracked, old cream colour, and he chose that one. The tea was fragrant—chamomile he was pretty sure. He took a sip, not adding anything to it, and let out a sigh.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice gruff.

Chirrut smiled, then reached out to squeeze his knee. “Is this okay? I’m very tactile but I don’t have to be.”

“I’m okay,” Baze admitted. And that was true. He found the slight touches a comfort rather than a burden. “I’m sorry. About before.”

Chirrut huffed a laugh as he sipped his own mug, then paused to add a spoon of honey to it. “You don’t have to apologise for yourself. None of that was your fault.”

Baze stared at the mottled, greenish yellow tea in his mug. He could see a reflection of the window, of the building across the street, distorted and wavering with his shaking hand. “How much,” he started, and breathed. “How much do you know?”

“About you?” Chirrut asked. “What you’ve told me, and what I’ve guessed.”

“Guessed,” Baze repeated.

Chirrut shrugged. “Once upon a time, when I was a ridiculous young man, I wanted to be a doctor. I was told that was impossible. Blind men didn’t become doctors. So I went into psychology.”

“You sell flowers,” Baze said.

Chirrut erupted into laughter. “Yes. I didn’t finish.”

“Why?”

“My mother died,” he said plainly.

Baze felt that like a shock, remembered the numbness when his own mother died, from all of his trauma, and how much he hated himself that his choices had led him to being in such a state that when he lost his remaining parent, he’d felt nothing. “I’m sorry.”

Chirrut shook his head. “She was…I had a complicated relationship with my parents. I was adopted,” he continued. “Cassian loves calling them the white saviours. My father was a Nazarene pastor, they were missionaries, and there was me. Blinded by infection, malnourished, abandoned. No one knew who my mother was, but my parents had enough money to adopt me. Nothing brought my mother more joy than telling her friends how I was rescued from a savage land where her precious, disabled baby was left for death.”

Baze felt irritation and frustration creeping up his spine. He knew about those people, the well-meaning white people who thought his culture was savage, communist, evil. They borrowed his culture, then mocked him for it. His parents had been deeply involved with the Chinese community when he was growing up. He went to Chinese school during the week, he spoke Mandarin right along with English, he knew his heritage. But he was encouraged to be the good Chinese boy. The one who was like all the other white kids.

“It will be easier,” his mother insisted.

He always thought it was her grief that insisted he assimilate. Perhaps he hadn’t really known her at all.

Either way, Chirrut’s story was not surprising. He was not the first Chinese man to have that background that Baze had met.

“When I was twenty three, I withdrew my application to the School of Psychology at the University, and I left.”

Baze licked his lips. “Where did you go.”

“I went on the white, frat-boy journey to find myself. That’s what Bodhi calls it,” Chirrut said with a slight laugh.

Baze couldn’t help a tiny grin. The panic was fading, and he was breathing easier. He sipped on his tea. “Did you find yourself.”

Chirrut laughed again. “No. Because I had never lost myself. I have very little to thank my parents for. A good education—the money to have a good education. The money to stop what I was doing, and leave the country. I went back to my birthplace.”

Baze blinked down at his lap. He had been born here, but he’d spent enough time in Tianjin when he was younger. He heard the stories about growing up there from his mother, from his grandfather before he died. He met cousins and second cousins twice removed—he was never sure how any of that worked. He never really cared much, never really appreciated it.

Looking at Chirrut now he realised how much of it he’d taken for granted. He wondered what his life might have been like if his mother had kept him away from it all.

“I lived there for a little while, travelled until my passport ran out. I managed to find a job in Shanghai just before I had to leave. They sponsored my work VISA, and I was able to stay. I lived there almost six years.”

Baze couldn’t help a tiny grin. “What was the job.”

“Janitor at a Buddhist temple.” Baze almost laughed until he realised that Chirrut was serious. “The tourist part of it. I cleaned up after all the gawking guests tromping through the grounds. I learnt a lot, learnt the language, the customs. Learnt what I’d been denied more than twenty years of my life.”

“Why did you come back?” Baze asked.

“My mother died,” he said. “I had told her I’d come home at some point, when I felt ready. I’d go back to school and finish my degree. Become a psychiatrist and…fulfil her dreams. Let her see the success she and my father set out to start when they saved the little blind boy from the savage land.”

Baze felt his throat get hot and tight. He cleared it. “That never happened.”

“It happened as the universe willed it,” Chirrut said simply. He bit his lip, then smiled. “They renamed me Charles.”

Baze couldn’t stop himself. He threw his head back and laughed, Chirrut joining him. “Impossible to imagine,” he confessed.

“Impossible for me to forget,” Chirrut countered, but he was still smiling. “Two weeks before she died, I met Cassian and Jynn. They were on their honeymoon.”

Baze blinked, confused. “Cassian and…but he and Bodhi…”

“Yes, he and Bodhi as well,” Chirrut said. “That happened later. They’re happy.”

Baze, who had never been one to judge, merely squeezed his tea mug. “Okay.”

“I got the call she was sick, and I knew then it was my time to return. Cassian and Jynn were heading here, to start up their own business. So I came along and…”

“And Rogue,” Baze said.

Chirrut chuckled. “There were a few failed ventures before Rogue. This was three years ago.”

Baze mused on the idea that Chirrut was in the city years ago. That their meeting could have happened much earlier. But then he thought, it was as the universe willed it, and it made him laugh to himself.

“Now here we are,” Chirrut said. He put his mug on the table and sat back.

Baze’s was almost gone, but he clung to the dredges, watching them swirl in the bottom of his mug. “I was in the army.”

“I guessed,” Chirrut said.

“An IED killed several men, injured several others. I was…” He stopped and took a breath. He had been a lot of things the day everything went to hell. He’d been alone, terrified, mourning. Ethan had died three days before, and he could still feel Ethan’s blood soaked into his shirt. He could still see them dragging his tattered, shredded body away. And part of him wondered if maybe they hadn’t sent him back out so soon it might not have…

But no. He knew that wasn’t true. He couldn’t allow himself to take the blame of the tragedy. Not like that.

“I lost my leg,” he finished. “Had a lot of nerve damage.”

“Is that where the scars are from?” Chirrut asked.

Baze brought his fingers to his cheek absently, unthinking. “Yes.”

Chirrut shifted closer, but didn’t ask to touch, and Baze was profoundly grateful for it. Chirrut’s hand did find his knee again, though, letting his fingers dig slightly into his jeans. He held his hand there, unmoving, comforting, and the two of them let the afternoon pass by.

*** 

The fourth time Chirrut brought Baze flowers for the shop and a cup of coffee in a paper take away cup, he told him about Ethan.

Baze’s early afternoon client had just finished up, paid, and was leaving when Chirrut walked through the door with a bouquet of pink daisies. “These don’t smell the strongest, but I’ve been told they’re very pretty.”

“They are,” Baze said. He put them up on the counter which was now so often occupied by flowers, he’d forgotten what it was like without the splash of colour in his drawing space. The scent was far more subtle, but he’d smelt it before, clinging to Chirrut’s clothes.

They moved to the back room when a handful of girls came in looking for naval piercings—which Amy was taking care of, and Baze locked the door and drew the blinds.

“What are the walls like in here?” Chirrut asked as he slid onto the lounging tattoo chair. He twisted his own cup between his thin fingers, his head tilted backward.

Baze talked to him, more than he talked to anyone. He still struggled, still felt the effort it took to make words but…with Chirrut it felt closer to what it had been like before. With others.

“I have a lot of art on the walls. All the guys contribute.”

“They’re your friends?” Chirrut asked.

“They rent space,” Baze said. “I don’t know them well. It’s hard for me to…” He stopped, and Chirrut nodded, indicating he understood. “We all have different styles. I like heavy, clean lines, a lot of shading. Realism.”

Chirrut held out a hand, beckoning Baze forward. Baze, on his rolling chair, scooted until he was at Chirrut’s side, and allowed the other man to take his arm. Chirrut pushed up his sleeve, exposing the skin on his left side both inked and scarred. His fingers toyed with a particularly thick one which was the result of the explosion, and several surgeries. “Clean, heavy lines here?”

Baze bit his lip, staring down at the ink. He’d had it done in another shop. Most of it, anyway. He’d done some of it himself but… “It’s a bridge,” he said, describing it. Baze’s skin was darker than Chirrut’s, and the man who’d started the piece was unfamiliar with tattooing darker skin. Baze, as best he could, had coached the guy through it, and Baze had touched it up later. “Over water.”

“The Golden Gate?” Chirrut asked with a grin, the smile letting Baze know he was only kidding. He brushed his fingers over it.

Baze closed his eyes, feeling the fingers over the ink, over his scars. The bridge over water—that had been for Ethan. Ethan had carried around a postcard of the scene. Baze had drawn it up by memory, and he could still hear Ethan’s laughing voice. “When this is all over, I’m going to be a bridge troll. I’m going to live under there and make people tell me riddles in order to pass.”

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Baze had told him, then had kissed him.

Then he’d died. And this was all Baze had left because no one had known.

Baze repeated the story now, to Chirrut who listened with closed eyes and soft fingers grounding him to the present. “I came home and didn’t know what to do. He wasn’t out to his family. I couldn’t…I couldn’t tell anyone what he meant to me. But I loved him, I think. For a little while.”

Chirrut’s fingers found the side of Baze’s face, cupping his cheek gently but firmly. Just…holding him, not asking for more, not asking him to forget or feel better. Just offering him this.

Baze swallowed, then cupped his hand round Chirrut’s and leant into the touch. “Sometimes it’s all so much I think I’m going to be swallowed alive.”

“And when it isn’t too much?” Chirrut asked.

Baze squeezed his eyes shut tightly. “I sleep. I rest. I smile.”

Chirrut moved his hand just slightly, so the edge of his thumb brushed the side of Baze’s downturned mouth. There was no smile there now, but there had been one. More than once. And because of a lot of things, but mostly because of Chirrut.

“Will you come to dinner with me?” Chirrut asked into the silence. “Whenever. Tomorrow, next week, next year. Next decade. When you’re ready.”

“As a date?” Baze asked, looking up.

Chirrut smiled at him. “As a date.”

Baze swallowed, then said, “Ask me again tomorrow.”

When Chirrut did, Baze said yes.

*** 

Their first kiss was two weeks and four dates later. All of them had been dinner, all of them had ended at the doorway to Chirrut’s building. Neither of them had asked for more, and Chirrut had left with just a soft pat to Baze’s cheek.

This night was different.

They were stargazing on the roof of Baze’s building, trying to catch what was supposed to be a spectacular meteor shower. Baze often ignored those things—had never really been interested. But Chirrut had insisted, said Baze’s building had the better view, and that was true. He was a little further from the city centre, less light pollution.

Baze had picked Chirrut up from Rogue in his beater car, and they’d driven to the small place he called home. They packed up a picnic of store-bought sandwiches and a bottle of sparkling wine. Baze had enough blankets and pillows he didn’t mind getting filthy, and a key to the access door thanks to a well-placed tattoo bribe to the maintenance man.

They were lying on their backs, arms behind their heads, knees knocked together.

“Have there been any yet?” Chirrut asked.

Baze turned, leaning up on his elbow to look down at Chirrut’s face. “No. Why did you ask for this date? Even having the meteor shower described can’t do much for you.”

Chirrut laughed, curling on his side a little. “It doesn’t, no.” He cleared his throat, and mimicked Baze’s gravelly voice. “One speck of light just shot across the sky. Another speck of light just shot across the sky.”

“So why?” Baze asked. Feeling bold, he reached out with his trembling left hand and drew a line along the exposed collarbone at the V of Chirrut’s shirt collar.

The other man shrugged. “It’s romantic. And I was hoping for a kiss.”

Baze’s touch stuttered, then drew up along the cut of Chirrut’s jaw. “You might have just asked for one.”

Chirrut’s smile spread wider, and he curled his fingers round Baze’s wrist, holding him steadfast. “You would have said yes.” It wasn’t a question, Baze knew, but he answered it anyway.

“I would have.”

“But I wanted this first—this important first—to mean something tattoo-worthy.”

Baze blinked, then laughed. He brought his head in close, feeling giddy, and a little afraid but also drunk on affection and want for this man. He was close enough to nuzzle Chirrut’s face with his nose, so he did, and drank him in. “You have already been tattoo worthy, Chirrut.”

The other man reached round, curling his fingers in the short, coarse curls at Baze’s nape that never seemed to get any longer. “Have I?”

Baze hummed. “Flowers,” he said. “Every week, new flowers. Every week, new colours, new scents, new arrangements. Your smile is like the sun, and I have wanted to kiss you for a long time now. It was always tattoo worthy.”

Chirrut tugged a little on Baze’s neck, and Baze came easily, willingly. It took a moment, the angle a little wrong, but their lips made contact and Baze sighed into the kiss. Their hands were searching, tugging and pulling. Baze hovered over Chirrut, propped up on his stronger right arm, but he felt embraced, encompassed by the brightness that was Chirrut.

When they broke apart, Baze tipped his forehead against the other man’s, and just let himself feel. “I’m afraid,” he confessed.

“I know. But I’m here,” Chirrut said.

“Will you bring me flowers tomorrow? The others are wilting.”

Chirrut laughed, and dropped several pecking kisses across Baze’s cheeks, across his nose, the corners of his mouth. “Yes. Do you have any requests?”

“Sunflowers,” Baze said, and let his fingers touch the corner of Chirrut’s mouth.

“They’re not in season yet,” Chirrut said. “But they will be, this summer. I’ll fill your shop.”

“You already do,” Baze replied, and fell down against the pillow curling himself round the slightly smaller man. “But a bouquet will be good. This summer.”

This summer. The future.

It wasn’t a promise exactly, but it was hope.

And that was something he could hold on to.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow my star wars side-blog at [ualmostshotme](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/ualmostshotme) where I post reblogs and eventual fic. I have another Baze/Chirrut fic coming up, along with some Storm Pilot. Currently taking fic requests for Star Wars fic and HCs.


End file.
